My forehead felt balled into a knot over the whole thing, which might be why I was sick in the toilet, my head exploding over the porcelain. Mama stood behind me during all that, rubbing my back.
This, too, shall pass , she said.
Would feeling like my mother’s personal atonement pass?
How about the way I hated her right then, my good mother who never wanted me but wanted to control my every move and thought and dictate my future to prove that she was a good daughter? Could I purge that emotion into the toilet, too? It’s not like I wanted to feel that way, any more than I wanted a puking headache.
It won’t pass , I said between heaves.
Of course it will , she said. You’ll feel right as rain tomorrow, sweetie .
Don’t call me that , I said, and she stopped rubbing my back. I don’t want to go to college .
She didn’t say anything.
She helped me back into bed a few minutes later, then reached for the warm ice bag. Time to dump the water.
I won’t change my mind , I said, when she was halfway out the door. Don’t bother trying .
She pretended not to hear me, but I know that she did.
Long minutes passed as I waited outside for Jim, but I didn’t hear the rumbling return of his truck with my bus in tow. Maybe he’d had a problem. Maybe the bus was too big for him. Maybe …
I walked back across the lot and toward the diner, settling my pack over a shoulder. Coffee might, at least, help my headache.
The place was called Ramps, I noticed, and was nicer inside than I’d processed fifteen minutes before, with a polished black-and-white tiled floor, vinyl red booth seats, and a ceiling of ornately pressed tin. Central to the main room was a Snapple beverage cooler, butted up against a wall covered with old doors and knobs. The other walls were stripped to reveal brick and housed a display that reminded me of something from an Early American art exhibit, with everything from tin animal cutouts to signs advertising the cost of live bait ( CRICKETS—$1, 50/COUNT ) . On a large chalkboard, a list of specials mentioned things I thought existed only on TV shows and in places like New York City—things like marinated chicken on focaccia bread with sun-dried tomatoes and pesto. And, I noticed with a sinking feeling that originated in my wallet, the people around us wore blouses and jackets, looked more like business professionals on a lunch break than travelers from Tramp hoping for a cheap seat.
Set before Olivia, though, was no more than a drink and a piece of pie, which eased my throbbing head—but not for long. I’d been inthe booth less than a second when she blurted out an idea as absurd as the dog I’d seen earlier on the stairs.
“We can take a train to the glades.”
“Olivia, please let’s not do this now. I need coffee,” I said, using one of my father’s favorite escape lines. Sense trouble? Delay. It had worked for him for most of my childhood. This, however, was Olivia, and with Olivia the rules had always been different.
“No, Jazz, really. We can take a train,” she said, her eyes wide and her body tipped so far toward me that she seemed inches away from sprawling over the table.
“That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had, and I’m including the time you wanted to dye the dog blue to match his name.”
“I was six. This will work. I—”
“Stop. I have a headache,” I said. “Jim isn’t back with the bus, and I have no idea how we’re going to get—”
“But it’s the answer to all our problems,” she said, looking somewhere in the vicinity of my left ear. “The train down there is heading to Levi, and Levi’s close to the glades.”
I followed the direction of her thrown-back thumb and noticed the train in the distance, the line of baby-blue Levi Pike cars. “Jesus, Olivia, that’s not a passenger train. It’s a freight train.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “People can ride and—”
I shushed her, shut down her jabberfest before it could begin,
This, too, shall pass , she said.
Would feeling like my mother’s personal atonement pass?
How about the way I hated her right then, my good mother who never wanted me but wanted to control my every move and thought and dictate my future to prove that she was a good daughter? Could I purge that emotion into the toilet, too? It’s not like I wanted to feel that way, any more than I wanted a puking headache.
It won’t pass , I said between heaves.
Of course it will , she said. You’ll feel right as rain tomorrow, sweetie .
Don’t call me that , I said, and she stopped rubbing my back. I don’t want to go to college .
She didn’t say anything.
She helped me back into bed a few minutes later, then reached for the warm ice bag. Time to dump the water.
I won’t change my mind , I said, when she was halfway out the door. Don’t bother trying .
She pretended not to hear me, but I know that she did.
Long minutes passed as I waited outside for Jim, but I didn’t hear the rumbling return of his truck with my bus in tow. Maybe he’d had a problem. Maybe the bus was too big for him. Maybe …
I walked back across the lot and toward the diner, settling my pack over a shoulder. Coffee might, at least, help my headache.
The place was called Ramps, I noticed, and was nicer inside than I’d processed fifteen minutes before, with a polished black-and-white tiled floor, vinyl red booth seats, and a ceiling of ornately pressed tin. Central to the main room was a Snapple beverage cooler, butted up against a wall covered with old doors and knobs. The other walls were stripped to reveal brick and housed a display that reminded me of something from an Early American art exhibit, with everything from tin animal cutouts to signs advertising the cost of live bait ( CRICKETS—$1, 50/COUNT ) . On a large chalkboard, a list of specials mentioned things I thought existed only on TV shows and in places like New York City—things like marinated chicken on focaccia bread with sun-dried tomatoes and pesto. And, I noticed with a sinking feeling that originated in my wallet, the people around us wore blouses and jackets, looked more like business professionals on a lunch break than travelers from Tramp hoping for a cheap seat.
Set before Olivia, though, was no more than a drink and a piece of pie, which eased my throbbing head—but not for long. I’d been inthe booth less than a second when she blurted out an idea as absurd as the dog I’d seen earlier on the stairs.
“We can take a train to the glades.”
“Olivia, please let’s not do this now. I need coffee,” I said, using one of my father’s favorite escape lines. Sense trouble? Delay. It had worked for him for most of my childhood. This, however, was Olivia, and with Olivia the rules had always been different.
“No, Jazz, really. We can take a train,” she said, her eyes wide and her body tipped so far toward me that she seemed inches away from sprawling over the table.
“That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had, and I’m including the time you wanted to dye the dog blue to match his name.”
“I was six. This will work. I—”
“Stop. I have a headache,” I said. “Jim isn’t back with the bus, and I have no idea how we’re going to get—”
“But it’s the answer to all our problems,” she said, looking somewhere in the vicinity of my left ear. “The train down there is heading to Levi, and Levi’s close to the glades.”
I followed the direction of her thrown-back thumb and noticed the train in the distance, the line of baby-blue Levi Pike cars. “Jesus, Olivia, that’s not a passenger train. It’s a freight train.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “People can ride and—”
I shushed her, shut down her jabberfest before it could begin,
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